


Keep The Holmes Fires Burning

by prettysailorsoldier



Series: 25 Days of Johnlock [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Baking, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, Family, Friends to Lovers, Jealous Sherlock, M/M, Pining, Teenlock, Unilock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-12
Updated: 2014-12-12
Packaged: 2018-03-01 04:13:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2759225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettysailorsoldier/pseuds/prettysailorsoldier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i><b>Prompt:</b> Can you have it have something to do with cookies? Making them or buying them or eating them or something like that? - merlynnllwyd</i>
</p>
<p>Waking up to a fire alarm on Christmas morning is rarely a good thing, but, when spending Christmas with the Holmes', it's the least of John's worries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep The Holmes Fires Burning

**Author's Note:**

> Exams are finally over!! I am going to be locking myself in my room and writing nothing but these two idiots now, so expect updates much more regularly from here on out.
> 
> While I cannot guarantee I will be able to write your prompt, there is always a lot of overlap and/or combining, so feel free to keep submitting them to me up until the end of the series! You can leave your prompts in comments here on ao3, or on [my Tumblr](http://thelittlebitofeverythinggirl.tumblr.com/).

John shifted his weight between his feet, hovering on the edge of the grand ballroom. He sipped at the flute of sparkling apple cider in his hand—the annual Holmes Christmas Eve party always nonalcoholic for some unknown reason dreamt up by a crazy person —and scanned the room, hoping nobody came up to talk to him and his Marks & Spencer suit until Sherlock got back from seeing his cousin out to her car.

“Foie gras, sir?”

John choked on his cider, lifting a hand to his mouth as he turned toward the server. “Pardon?” he muttered, not entirely sure _what_ language that had been in.

The server smiled at him, a young man not much older than John, probably trying to make ends meet through uni just the same as he was, working at a coffee shop near campus and fiercely failing to scrub the scent of peppermint mocha out of his hair every night. “Foie gras,” the man repeated, because apparently those were real words, “on brioche toasts with a date puree and garnish of pomegranate seeds.”

John blinked at him, and then down at the tray, pretty sure those were just open faced sandwiches with fruit. “Um,” he murmured skeptically, and the man chuckled, pulling the tray back in toward his body.

“Yeah, I don’t know either,” he muttered with a shrug, tipping the tray a bit as he examined the wares. “I just read what’s on the card. There’s mushrooms going around somewhere though,” he added, lifting his head to scan over the room behind him, “and I could pronounce all the words on that one, so…” He broke off with a quirk of a shoulder, smiling as John laughed.

“They came by earlier,” he said, bobbing his head toward the attractive blond who was now making her way along the adjacent wall with her tray. “’Fraid I’m not a fan of mushrooms either. Any chance one of you has fish and chips?” he asked, lifting a brow, and the man laughed, shaking his head.

“Sorry,” he said, seeming genuinely sympathetic, “not tonight. There’s something pretty much like pizza though.”

“Pretty much?” John pressed, and the man nodded.

“They have to call it something else, of course,” he muttered derisively, and John smiled, “but it’s pizza. Fancy foreign language, insultingly small portions pizza, but pizza all the same.”

John chuckled, dipping his head down to his cider as he rocked on his heels. “Is it dusted with edible gold flake though?” he asked, and the man laughed again. “Because there was a dessert last year that had that, and I now refuse to accept anything less.”

“Oh, you were at last year’s party too?” the man inquired, and John tilted his head, confused at the surprise. The man’s lips twitched in a self-conscious smile as he fiddled with the tray on his palm. “Sorry, I- You just don’t really seem…” He trailed off, mouth moving soundlessly as his neck began to flush, but John only chuckled, waving his hand to dismiss the embarrassment.

“No, you’re right,” he assured with a nod. “This isn’t exactly my usual crowd. I think I know five people here, and that’s being optimistic.”

The man laughed, and John smiled, shifting his cider to his left hand.

“I’m John,” he said, extending a hand. “Before we reach that point in the conversation where it gets too awkward to ask.”

The man chuckled, shaking John’s hand with a brief bob. “Richard. Well, Rick,” he said, tipping his head as he released John’s hand. “So, if you don’t mind my asking, what _are_ you doing here?” he asked, casting a glance back over the room. “I mean, if you only know five people.”

“Well, the five people I know are the Holmes’, so…” He shrugged a shoulder, lifting his brows, and Rick nodded, mouth opening in understanding. “This is my…twelfth Christmas party? Eleventh? Too many to remember, at any rate,” he muttered, rattling his head.

“Wow,” Rick said, eyes widening, “and you still only know five people?”

John huffed a small laugh, looking once again to his shoes. “Well, what can I say?” he sighed, shoulders lifting along with his eyes. “Guess I’m not much for small talk.”

“You’re doing just fine with me,” Rick replied, mouth quirking in a smirk, and John blinked, lips popping apart in surprise.

“Um, well-”

“There you are!”

He turned to the voice, Sherlock striding toward them, his imposing figure cut in black and white. John had jokingly called him ‘The Brunette Bond’ earlier, but it seemed almost fitting now, a strangely stormy expression pinching his features as he scanned between him and Rick.

“Where were you? I told you to wait by the south wall,” he muttered, moving to stand at John’s shoulder.

John quirked a brow at him, confused at the ire in his gaze. “Yeah, they’re not exactly labelled, you know,” he replied, and Sherlock scoffed, rolling his eyes.

“Isn’t that what they taught you in that wilderness training nonsense? Navigating with moss and whatnot?”

“You know, you’re right,” John quipped, smiling sarcastically. “Why didn’t I think to check the moss on the sconces? My mistake.”

Sherlock sneered at him, and John beamed back, and then the chemistry student by day, consulting detective by night turned on his expensive soles and started back across the ballroom. “Come on,” he beckoned without turning around, “we have to find Mother.”

“Norman? NORM-”

“Don’t you dare!” Sherlock interjected, cutting him off as he whipped back around with a glare, and John chuckled, swirling his cider smugly in his glass as he turned to Rick.

“It was nice meeting you,” he said, tipping his head, and Rick smiled hesitantly, looking between him and Sherlock.

His eyes lingered on Sherlock a moment, going wide with something like fear, and John frowned in confusion, looking to the detective, but the man’s face was entirely impassive by the time he turned.

“I’ll, er, keep an eye out for those pizzas,” John added, pulling up a smile, and Rick weakly returned it as a swallow moved down his throat. John frowned, about to ask what he’d missed when Sherlock suddenly barked at him.

“John!”

“Yeah, yeah, alright,” John muttered, turning to follow after him, glancing back to see Rick darting away into the crowd. He frowned, looking up past Sherlock’s shoulder to the brunette’s stiff-set face. “What was that all about?”

“What?” Sherlock muttered, tipping his chin down toward John, though he didn’t meet his eyes.

John’s brow furrowed even further, but he was forced momentarily silent as they weaved through the crowd, popping out into open air again near the foyer.

“I’m going to go look upstairs,” Sherlock said, already heading toward the grand wooden steps. “You check down here. If you find her, send her over to the beverage tables. Father’s been stuck talking to Mr. Simmons for ten minutes already.”

John grimaced in sympathy, and then nodded. “Roger that,” he clipped, and Sherlock rolled his eyes with an exasperated sigh before he disappeared down an upstairs corridor. John chuckled, walking across the foyer toward the back of the house, checking doors here and there as he went.

He peered into the kitchen briefly, initially giving it up as another dead end, and then noticed a figure walk past a window at the back wall, the top of a grey head skimming the window frame. With a frown, he slipped inside, sticking to the edges to avoid the catering company staff, and made his way to the back door, an entrance into the garden that was usually used only by party staff and Sherlock when he got tired of his own birthday parties.

Apparently, some things ran in the family, because leaning against the stone exterior of the manor was Mrs. Holmes, her eyes closed and face lifted toward the dark sky. It was quite cold, and she had thrown a heavy overcoat on over her dress, but what John had initially thought was merely her breath fogging in the dark in front of her was, in fact, cigarette smoke, her thin hands lifting the glowing embers to her mouth.

John hesitated on the path, looking between the door and the woman, uncertain of his choice, but then Mrs. Holmes turned, spotting him, and they were both caught.

“John!” she started, pushing up off the wall and hiding the cigarette behind her leg. “I-I didn’t hear- What are you doing out here?”

“I- Sherlock’s looking for you. Well, Mr. Holmes, I guess,” he muttered, eyes flittering between her and the ground. “He-He’s talking to Mr. Simmons.”

“Ah,” Mrs. Holmes said, nodding in understanding. “Well, that does sound dire. Let me just-” She paused, lifting her brows as she looked at him, and then sighed, pulling the cigarette back out as she once again leaned against the house. “Don’t suppose there’s any sense trying to lie to you,” she muttered, tipping the cigarette at him, and John smiled, slipping his hands into his pockets to keep the chill off them as he ambled forward.

“Not really, no,” he answered, and she chuckled.

“I know I shouldn’t,” she said, flicking some of the ash loose. “I’ve been trying to quit for years. The boys think I have,” she added, tossing him a glance that clearly indicated it should stay that way, “but I haven’t managed it. Not entirely, at least. But I was doing just fine until this bloody Christmas party.” She bobbed her head back toward the house, nodding up the wall in the direction of the ballroom. “Honestly,” she huffed, rattling her head, “the season of giving is giving _me_ an ulcer.”

John laughed, coming up to stand beside her as she drew in yet another mouthful of smoke, turning her head to blow it away from him. “I’ve heard the patches are better now,” he offered with a shrug, and the woman tipped a soft smile across at him.

“That’s what you got Sherlock, isn’t it?” she asked, brow furrowing curiously. “After you two moved in together last year?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, and Mrs. Holmes snorted.

“For chrissake, John, I’ve known you since you wanted to be Batman-”

“I still wanna be Batman,” John interrupted, and she laughed.

“Don’t we all,” she conceded with a tip of her head, “but the _point_ is, you don’t have to call me ma’am. Or Mrs. Holmes, for that matter; how many times do I have to tell you to just call me Violet?”

John smirked down at his shoes. “At least once more, Mrs. Holmes,” he replied, lifting his eyes to her, and she giggled, shaking her head up at the sky.

“Clever,” she remarked, waggling her cigarette at him, and John chuckled.

“Thank you,” he replied with a grin. “It is nice to have a pop culture reference land once in a while.”

“Yes, I’d imagine it is,” she laughed. “Sherlock still won’t watch them, then?”

“No,” John answered, shaking his head. “Says they’re a disgrace to pirate lore,” he added, and Mrs. Holmes burst into loud laughter.

“What are you doing out here?”

They both jumped, spinning to the voice to find Sherlock staring them down from the doorway, his tall figure silhouetted dramatically against the light from the kitchen. He moved toward them, and John dropped his eyes behind him, watching as Mrs. Holmes quickly dropped and snuffed her cigarette in the grass.

“It’s freezing,” Sherlock snapped, casting a chiding look over his mother, “and you only got over your cold a few days ago.”

“Oh, come now, Sherlock,” Mrs. Holmes replied, rolling her eyes in a downright disturbingly familiar gesture. “I’m hardly going to catch my death in five minutes. And I brought a coat,” she added, tugging at a lapel, but Sherlock appeared unmoved, his eyes only narrowing further.

“All the same-” he snapped, and then stopped, arm stalling halfway outstretched to his mother’s wrist. He frowned, blinked, and then sniffed, and John froze, knowing it was already too late to run. “Is- Is that-” he murmured, leaning in toward his mother, who vainly closed her mouth. He then recoiled, mouth dropping open in almost comical offense. “Were you _smoking_!?”

“I-” Mrs. Holmes stammered, eyes wide as they flicked between the two boys. “No!” she spluttered, rattling her head. “I-I was- It was John!”

“It was _who_!?” John spouted, incredulous as Mrs. Holmes shrugged sheepishly, but Sherlock just barked a bitter laugh.

“John?” he scoffed. “You expect me to believe the man who told me he would, and I _quote_ , ‘turn my balls into coin purses’ if I didn’t quit-”

“Brutal,” Mrs. Holmes muttered.

“Thank you,” John replied, and Sherlock just glared at them both before barreling on.

“-was out here _smoking_? He’s a doctor, for heaven’s sake!”

“I’m only a stu-”

“Oh, stop it!”

John started, looking between the two Holmes’ who were now snapping at him in tandem.

“You only have two years left,” Sherlock said, Mrs. Holmes nodding enthusiastically.

“And you’ve already started your placements. Really, you shouldn’t keep selling yourself short as just a student,” she supplied, and John looked between them, thoroughly nonplussed how this had suddenly become about _him_.

“You took care of my pneumonia last month,” Sherlock added, and John snorted, rounding on him.

“That’s because you didn’t have pneumonia,” he spat, and Sherlock’s jaw clenched. “You had a _cold_.”

“I could feel it in my lungs, John!” Sherlock spouted, and John rolled his eyes.

“I _told_ you, your breathing was _fine_!”

“And my fever was-”

“Completely normal for a cold!”

“It was _pneumonia_!”

“Rhinopharyngitis.”

“Streptococcus pneumoniae!”

“Woah, boys, boys!” Mrs. Holmes interjected, slipping a hand between them. “Calm down, alright? Keep in English.”

They glared at one another a moment longer, and then blinked away, Sherlock tugging at the bottom of his suit jacket as he leaned back.

“Let’s go back inside,” Mrs. Holmes said, laying a hand on each of their shoulders, “before we _all_ catch a cold.”

“Or pneumonia.”

“Yes, dear,” Mrs. Holmes said, patting his arm, and Sherlock’s mouth dropped open before he snapped it shut with a glare. “Oh, and don’t tell your father about the smoking,” she added, flashing one last grin before heading to the kitchen, Sherlock turning to follow her with narrowed eyes.

“I’ll tell my father whatever I want,” he muttered, and John snorted.

“Wow,” he breathed, shaking his head, and then followed the woman, Sherlock on his heels.

When he stepped back into the kitchen, it was abuzz with activity, servers pulling tray after tray out onto the counter, a variety of dishes and delicacies spread out on the granite.

“Oh, dessert!” Mrs. Holmes chirped, clapping her hands beneath her chin, and John quirked a brow.

“Dessert?” he murmured, leaning down, nose wrinkling at some sort of pudding with chunks in it that he hoped were berries. He stretched back to standing, turning his face away from Mrs. Holmes to talk back at Sherlock’s shoulder. “Was that ever alive?” he muttered, pointing at what he was sure was a very expensive delicacy, and the brunette snorted, lifting a hand to his mouth.

“No,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “It’s pumpkin ricotta parfait.”

John blinked, lips hovering apart in confusion. “And that’s _edible_?” he finally spluttered, and Sherlock laughed.

“Well, what would you suggest?” he asked, bobbing his head, and John followed him out into the corridor. “S’mores? Deep-friend Oreos?”

“Oh, you know you liked the s’mores, don’t even try it,” John snapped, and Sherlock laughed, shrugging in admission. “And no,” he continued, smiling up at his roommate, “I was thinking more…sugar biscuits or-or gingerbread. You know, the usual Christmas things.”

“Really?” Sherlock murmured, frowning quizzically as he adjusted his thin black tie. “That’s what people normally eat at Christmas?”

John stopped, catching the boy’s arm just outside of the ballroom. “Seriously?” he clipped, eyes narrowed up at the man’s face. “You-You don’t make biscuits at Christmas?”

“Make?” Sherlock blurted over a laugh. “God, no! The only I make is grown men cry.”

John laughed, shaking his head as he looked out over the party. “Mum and I used to make them,” he said softly, and Sherlock fell silent.

John didn’t often talk about his mother since her death when he was young, but Sherlock knew better than to interrupt him when he did. They’d moved into the city to stay with John’s aunt when his mother’s cancer returned, and then, within the year, she was gone, John and Harry left with Aunt Sophie until they had moved out for uni. He’d only known Sherlock a few months before his mother passed, and they’d only been children then, but the boy had never left his side, not even when John told him to, flung every hateful word he could think of because he had to get them out somewhere. Sherlock held onto the cuff of his suit through the whole funeral, a small gesture of solidarity that nearly moved John to tears, and, later, when the tears did come, Sherlock was the only one to ever see them. Even years later, when John would have a dream, or a nightmare, or just run across an old picture, Sherlock would always answer the call, regardless of how late it was or what he was doing, and, no matter how many times John tried to tell him how much it meant, stumbling and faltering over the strangled words, Sherlock would always stop him with a gentle ‘That’s what friends do, John,’ and John would fall quiet, something like that far beyond a reply.

“She had, like…fifteen different cutters,” John chuckled, dropping his eyes to the floor, “and she’d always go out and buy every kind of sprinkle she saw. A lot of the time they were Halloween too, because that’s what was on sale, so we’d have these snowman cookies with bats for the buttons.” He smiled, Sherlock chuckling softly at his side. “It was one of the only traditions we kept up after,” he continued, the ‘she got sick’ going unspoken between them. “My aunt helped with the baking, but Mum could still decorate with us. Made a _mess_ of the dining table,” he remembered, smiling fondly as he looked unseeing over the guests. He swallowed, dropping his chin as he shrugged. “Haven’t done it since,” he muttered, rattling his head faintly. “I’d practically forgotten about it,” he added in a breath of a laugh, even though they both knew he was lying.

It was silent a moment, and then Sherlock shuffled up nearer to his side.

“Maybe-Maybe you should try making them again,” he suggested, and John sniffed in bitter amusement.

“No,” he said, shaking his head, “there’d be no point. It was always a family thing and- Well…” He shrugged, his tumultuous-turned-nonexistent relationship with his sister not something that required reiterating. “And, besides,” he added, tilting his head up with a smile, “I’d probably burn the flat down.”

Sherlock smiled, dropping his eyes to their feet. “Well, I- I mean, we could-”

“Figures.” Mycroft strode out of the ballroom toward them, eyebrows raised and arms crossed. “I’m in there getting accosted by relatives I didn’t even know I had, and you two are hiding out here.”

“Hiding?” John mocked, tilting his head with an exaggerated frown. “I’m not sure we’re hiding, are we, Sherlock?”

“No,” Sherlock affirmed, rattling his head. “Lingering, maybe.”

“Perhaps hovering.”

“Or loitering.”

“Oh, god, forget it,” Mycroft snapped, and John laughed, Sherlock grinning beside him. “Aunt Marian is looking for you,” he said, and Sherlock groaned. “Yes, I know,” Mycroft commiserated, nodding with a far-off look in his eyes, like someone recalling past horrors, “but she’s fairly drunk already, and she brought the Christmas cards.”

Sherlock perked up, eyebrow quirking. “50?” he questioned, and Mycroft shook his head with a smirk.

“100,” he amended, and Sherlock beamed.

John looked between the two of them, head shaking in scolding. “That’s just cold,” he muttered, and both Holmes brothers sighed exasperatedly.

“Really, John, you’ve met the woman,” Sherlock said. “It’s only right we get paid to be in her company. Hey!” he blurted, twisting to John with bright eyes that usually meant they were about to do something of questionable legality for the sake of evidence or science. “Come with me! She never likes talking to you long; thinks the bourgeoisie will rub off on her.”

Mycroft snorted, and John just stared, shaking his head up at his former friend.

“Does your mouth check with your brain before it speaks?” he asked, and Sherlock huffed, grabbing him by the wrist and dragging him past Mycroft toward the ballroom.

“Oh, please, you’re not offended,” he scoffed as they pushed into the crowd.

“I might be,” John muttered back, pulling up tight to Sherlock’s back.

Sherlock smiled back over his shoulder. “Well, when you’re sure, let me know, and I’ll apologize,” he said primly, and John snorted.

“No, you won’t.”

“Sure, I will.”

“But you won’t mean it,” John retorted, and Sherlock laughed.

“Yes, well,” he replied, shrugging, “some miracles are even too big for Christmas.”

John laughed, weaving through the glittering group in Sherlock’s wake. He caught sight of Rick out of the corner of his eye, the boy’s eyes widening on Sherlock before he beat a hasty retreat the opposite direction, and John frowned, leaning up to tug at the sleeve of Sherlock’s suit. “Hey, what did you say to Rick?” he asked, and Sherlock’s back stiffened.

“Who?” he murmured, just a touch too airy to be genuine.

“The server,” John explained, slowing as they neared Sherlock’s aunt. “The one I was talking to before. What did you say to him? He looks bloody well terrified of you now.”

“You were there the whole time, John,” Sherlock sniffed. “I didn’t say anything to him.”

John frowned, looking up at the back of Sherlock’s neck. “Well, then why-”

“He has a boyfriend,” Sherlock interjected, his pale throat flushing a little, and John blinked, drawing around to his side to try and catch his eye. “Just…so you know.”

“Why would I need to-”

“Aunt Marian!” Sherlock blurted, stretching his arms wide as a glittering fake smile broke across his face, and John fell silent as the old woman squealed and embraced him.

He hitched his own perplexed frown up into a smile as he watched the display, Sherlock’s eye twitching in an aborted wince as Marian pulled back to pat at his cheeks, but, as he caught Sherlock’s sidelong gaze, something more and more familiar wriggled in his stomach.

Things had been awkward—to say the very least—since Sherlock had found out he was bisexual a few months ago. John hadn’t exactly been hiding it, but he hadn’t mentioned it either, and, to be fair, finding out during an ill-timed run-in with a “friend” from summer camp had probably not helped matters. John had only really dated women, men by far the minority and never anything more than a drunken night here and there, but he could tell it hurt Sherlock that he hadn’t told him. And he should’ve told him, he knew he should’ve, but…well, then he would’ve had to explain why Peter from summer camp had dark hair and blue eyes and at least four inches on him, and he didn’t think he was ready for _that_ conversation. The ‘Hey, I’m bisexual!’ one, sure, but the ‘Hey, I don’t know if you’re gay or straight or uninterested in all of it because you’ve never dated anyone that I’m aware of, but I kind of think I’m a little bit in love with you if you’d like to give it a go’ one, considerably less so. He planned to tell him eventually, but the time always got pushed back, the moment never entirely right, and now there was an extra layer of awkward because Sherlock kept offering various insights into every man that flirted with him. Which only made everythingworse, because now, not only was the person he actually liked volunteering as wingman, but it was also so unbearably _hot_ every time Sherlock rattled off his unerring deductions that John wanted nothing more than to grab him by that stupid collar and really give him something to deduce, but he could never do it. Sherlock was his friend, his best friend, the kind of friend that so few people ever get the privilege to find, and he couldn’t risk ruining it over something as selfish as a one-way crush.

Although, and he was probably wrong, was probably nine kinds of crazy for even _considering_ it, but- Well, sometimes…it didn’t seem entirely unrequited.

It was nothing definitive, nothing even considerably obvious, but, on occasion, dark nights curled up in armchairs by the fire for an evening of studying and bickering over the optimum thermostat setting, he thought he saw… Well, he didn’t even know _what_ to call it, but there was something in Sherlock’s eyes, in the way his face softened into a gentle smile that was just a little less guarded than usual. And, sure, ostensibly, he was helping when he guided John away from this guy or that, but there was something in the way he did it, in the slight stiffening of his tone and dulling of his eyes that made John wonder, made him just barely consider the impossible. Problem was, it was always gone too quickly for him to interpret, Sherlock back to his usual million-miles-away self before John’s heart could even skip a whole beat, and then they would go back to avoiding, caught in a stalemate no one seemed brave enough to break.

So, John would stand here, hover at Sherlock’s shoulder and look common until Aunt Marian got nervous and shooed them off, and then they would tuck themselves into their corner—the place they always ended up during these events—and Sherlock would throw out deductions John was sure were mostly made up about the guests, and John would laugh, and Sherlock would laugh, and then they would go off to their separate rooms and wait to be awoken by Mrs. Hudson’s waffles on Christmas morning, the landlady an old friend of the family who always stayed overnight after any party, her legs far too wobbly to get her back home. He would do what he had always done, play out his part and ignore the tension pulling tighter and tighter with every day they spent together since the discovery, but John knew it was only a matter of time. Either he would break, or Sherlock would ask him and he wouldn’t be able to lie, or something, but, regardless, that train was barreling down on them, and, as he watched Sherlock talking with his aunt, eyes bright with the captured reflections of the chandeliers overhead, he only hoped they survived the impact.

*****

John was already halfway out of bed before he was fully awake, ripping the blankets off and stretching one leg down onto the floor. He blinked, trying to bring the dark room into focus as his feet pushed into the grey rug, and then realized what had awoken him and raced to the door. A smoke alarm was blaring somewhere downstairs, and he descended into a fog as he ran down the steps, his vision growing more and more blurry as he went. Upon reaching the foyer, he heard a loud crash to his right, down a corridor of even thicker smoke, and barreled through it, swatting a hand across his face.

“What the-” he coughed, blinking into the grey mist as he stepped through the kitchen door, and then froze, hand slowly falling back to his side.

Sherlock stood on a chair below the smoke detector, towel in hand, the fabric falling limp as he ceased his swatting. He was covered in flour, like he’d fallen into a vat of it, and was wearing—wonder of wonders—an _apron_ , one John had seen Mrs. Holmes wear while she prepared the little of Christmas dinner Mr. Holmes allowed her to touch, a red ruffled thing meant to look like a Mrs. Claus ensemble. His mouth dropped open, eyes widening in horror and shock, and John mirrored the gesture.

“Sherlock?” he spluttered, blinking wildly as he looked around at the mess of a room. “What are you-” He faltered, heart stopping dead in his chest.

Spread over every inch of counter space was plate after plate after tray after tray of biscuits, a veritable tower of frostings and sprinkles stacked up in the center of the island, though the array of baked shapes had yet to be decorated. Candy canes, snowmen, Santas, and a few others John couldn’t identify from here were carved out in brown gingerbread and pale yellow sugar biscuits, and he stepped forward, the smell of spice and butter wafting up his nose amidst the apparently burned batch.

He shook his head in bemusement, his lungs straining to breathe for reasons entirely independent of the smoke as he looked up at Sherlock towering over him where he still stood on the chair. “Sherlock?” he whispered, and the brunette’s eyes skittered away, his hands wringing the towel in front of his chest.

“I- John-” he stammered, eyes flicking up, helpless and lost and, for once, _open_ , and John knew. He just knew.

“What’s going on?!” Mrs. Holmes burst into the room, hair rolled up in pink curlers as she fidgeted with the tie of a pale blue robe. She froze just inside the door, face stretching wide as she took in the scene, and Mr. Holmes and Mycroft appeared just behind her, imitating the expression.

“Sherlock?” Mycroft spouted, the smoke alarm finally ceasing above them. “What the _hell_ are you-”

“Oh no!” Mrs. Hudson shoved her way through the crowd, flapping her hands, and John stumbled out of her way, catching himself on the edge of a counter. “Oh no, oh no, oh no!” She swept past Sherlock to the oven, the boy leaping down from the chair in a move John would’ve reprimanded him for if his throat would work.

“I already took them out,” he muttered, back determinedly turned to John, who was trying to psychically communicate through the back of Sherlock’s head.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Sherlock!” she fussed, turning to grab onto his arm. “I fell asleep in the sitting room!”

“It’s alright,” he mumbled, ducking his chin to the floor, and only then did Mrs. Hudson seem to notice the room full of people around her.

Her eyes found John’s, and she started, lips snapping shut as her gaze flicked between him and Sherlock, and John couldn’t do anything fast enough, couldn’t hide what he knew was written all over his face, and, after a moment, Mrs. Hudson smiled. “Well alright,” she breathed, gripping tighter to Sherlock’s arm as she looked up at him, eyes beginning to glitter. She then cleared her throat, bustling toward the door. “Come on everyone!” she clipped, swatting her hands at the trio of Holmes’, who still looked rather frozen with shock. “Might as well get started on the presents as long as we’re up!”

“But-”

“Mycroft,” Mrs. Holmes interjected, but she was looking at John, and he couldn’t look away, that familiar Holmes stare searching over his features. Whatever she saw, however, she didn’t seem to mind, and a soft smile curled at her lips, followed by a small nod that felt very much like a blessing.

John swallowed, throat suddenly thick, but managed a weak smile back, and then the woman turned away, placing a hand on her eldest son’s arm.

The four of them left, the door swinging shut with a dull thud behind them, and then he and Sherlock were left alone in the kitchen, only the fading smoke for company.

John stared at the floor for a long moment, and then chanced a glance up through his lashes, only to find Sherlock still looking away. He lifted his face, breathing through several failed attempts at speech, and then finally managed a frail murmur. “Sherlock?” he croaked, and the boy flinched, fingers twisting at the pockets of the truly ridiculous apron. John took a small step forward, and then his gaze dropped to the biscuits on the counter, and he was emboldened to take another. “Sherlock,” he said again, stronger now, and the brunette bit his lip, “how-how did you-“ He stopped, shaking his head out over the scene, and Sherlock sighed.

“I-I talked to Mrs. Hudson after the party,” he muttered, bobbing his head back at the pastries. “She’s dating that man who runs the shop in town, and she-she made a call.”

“On Christmas Eve?” John spluttered, and the boy nodded.

“She was apparently very persuasive,” he mumbled, and John barked a laugh in spite of himself.

He then dropped his eyes to the floor, swallowing down the knot of nerves. “Sherlock,” he started softly, and the man finally looked at him, grey peeking through flour-dusted lashes, “why?” John shook his head, shuffling a step closer over the tile. “Why did you-”

“You know why,” Sherlock interjected, and, though it was barely a whisper, it hit John’s ears like a bomb, blowing every other thought from his mind.

He heard his own gasp like it came from someone else, his body feeling foreign and fuzzy and completely out of his control, as all he could do was gape while Sherlock flustered, running a hand back through his dark curls, flour clinging to the strands like snow.

“I-I know it’s not- And maybe it was wrong of me, maybe I shouldn’t’ve, but-” Sherlock stopped, eyes closing as he took in a single steadying breath, and, when his eyelids flicked back open, his gaze was firm. “You said it was a family thing,” he said, navy socks shuffling closer to John’s bare feet, “and I know we’re not-we’re not really- But we are, kind of, aren’t we?” His face pinched in helpless question, a swallow bobbing down his throat. “You-You came to my science fair. And sabotaged Michael Teller’s volcano so he wouldn’t win just because his mother was dating the judge.”

“No, I-”

“You’ve been lying about it for ten years, John; I think it’s time to come clean.”

John’s mouth stalled open, and then closed, a sheepish smile twisting at his mouth as he dropped his face.

“You’re the only one who can go golfing with father,” Sherlock continued, and John puffed a laugh, remembering the first and _only_ time all four of the men had gone together, Mycroft and Sherlock singlehandedly keeping the landscapers in the black for that year, “and Mrs. Hudson always knits you the best socks. Don’t deny it,” he snapped as John opened his mouth, lifting a halting finger between them. “You’re the only one Mycroft allows to borrow his books, and you know mother loves you. And I-”

John snapped his head up, the silence pressing on his ears as Sherlock faltered, lips trembling where they stuck open. “You?” he prompted in a breath, and Sherlock blinked, mouth closing as his eyes dropped.

He swallowed, blowing out a shaky breath at the tile, and, when he lifted his face, staring past John to the door, his eyes were glassy. “John-” he whispered jaggedly, and John just moved, unable to stand watching Sherlock doubt a second longer.

Gently, not wanting to spook him, John lifted a hand to the side of Sherlock’s face, pulling the boy’s chin to face him. He stared at his thumb as it shifted against Sherlock’s skin, the fine dusting of stubble sending shivers down his arm, and then looked up, Sherlock’s wide eyes fixed on his blue ones. Even now, so close, he almost didn’t do it, but then Sherlock’s gaze flickered down to his lips, dark lashes blinking slowly against his pale skin, and he lifted up onto his toes in tandem with a flip of his stomach.

It was a soft kiss, more a graze of skin than anything, Sherlock entirely nonresponsive apart from a sharp gasp, but John didn’t think he could handle much more than that right now anyway, the whole room spinning with smoke and sugar and endless possibilities, and he hadn’t had nearly enough sleep to sort it all out yet.

He pulled away, hand lingering on Sherlock’s cheek a moment, and then smiled, lifting his fingers to flick a curl overhanging the boy’s forehead. “You’re a mess,” he murmured, and Sherlock blinked repeatedly a moment before breaking into a broad smile.

“Yeah, I-I tried helping,” he muttered, looking down his white-dusted form, “but Mrs. Hudson didn’t approve of my measuring technique, so she demoted me to cutting duty.”

John chuckled, leaning back to look over the white-trimmed ruffles of the apron, sucking his lips over his teeth to smother a grin.

“It was the only one I could find,” Sherlock whined, brushing at the fabric, and John nodded.

“Sure it was,” he squeaked, and then laughed as Sherlock swatted him hard on the arm, his cheeks beginning to match his outfit.

“Yoo-hoo!” Mrs. Holmes knocked on the kitchen door as she pushed it open, grinning brightly when she caught their eyes, looking between their faces. “You two ready? Dad’s getting antsy.”

John chuckled, nodding at the woman as she approached. “Yeah, we’re-we’re ready,” he replied as Sherlock untied his apron, draping it over one of the stools. “Um, but shouldn’t we-” John started, turning over his shoulder to point at the biscuits, but Mrs. Holmes flicked a hand in dismissal as she moved to his side.

“Naw, don’t worry about it,” she muttered, slipping an arm through his. “They probably need more time to cool anyway. We’ll open some presents and then come back and decorate them together, alright?” she suggested, rattling him slightly, and, though she said it casually enough, there was a certain glint in her eyes that left no doubt she knew _exactly_ how much more it really meant.

John couldn’t speak, a tangle of emotion he’d never be able to unravel lodging firmly in his throat, so he simply nodded, smiling across at her as he blinked the sting from his eyes.

Mrs. Holmes smiled back, sliding her arm free from his as she stepped toward the door. “Come on, then! I can’t _wait_ to see what you think of my present; it’s going to put Sherlock’s to _shame_!”

“Mother,” Sherlock hissed, but John just laughed, reaching back to catch the man’s hand and pull him along.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered, turning over his shoulder to beam at the brunette as he linked their fingers, “I’m pretty sure she just got me another scarf.”

“I knew you looked in that bag!” Mrs. Holmes spouted, pointing accusatorily back at him as she popped her head back inside the kitchen, and John froze, Sherlock’s bursting into laughter at his side.

“I didn’t mean to!” he bleated as they moved into the corridor. “I was just helping carry in the shopping!”

Mrs. Holmes huffed, rolling her eyes as she turned into the living room, and John winced in trepidation as Sherlock laughed, lifting his free hand to wrap lightly around John’s arm as he pressed to his hip.

“You’re in trouble,” he drawled in mocking, yelping when John jabbed him in the ribs.

“While we’re all very happy the pining staring is over with,” Mycroft’s voice snapped from around the corner, “do you mind moving your nauseating display in here so I can open my first editions?”

“How did you-”

“Oh, really, Mother, it was obvious,” the man muttered back, and John exchanged an exasperated glance with Sherlock before they turned the corner, pulling their hands apart as they entered. “You said you needed to run to the tailor, but you weren’t gone nearly long enough for that, so you must have gone to a shop closer. And then there was the packaging, a rectangular outline clearly visible, even through the four bags you put it in.”

“Are you sure?” Sherlock murmured in his ear as Mycroft rattled on, moving on to talk about the amount of petrol used for Mrs. Holmes’ journey to the bookstore.

John frowned, turning up to him. “About what?” he answered, and Sherlock shrugged.

“All of it,” he said, looking back out over the living room, and John followed his gaze.

The entire crew had now chimed in on the proceedings, voicing objections and counter explanations. Mrs. Hudson was reprimanding Mycroft for ruining the surprise, Mr. Holmes was trying to sneakily unwrap what looked to be a new electric razor, and Mrs. Holmes was glaring at him from the sofa across the coffee table, trying to shame him into stopping with her eyes.

John smiled, nodding as he turned back to Sherlock, the lights of the towering Christmas tree in the corner reflected in his eyes like galaxies. “Positive,” he assured, and, after a blink, Sherlock grinned.


End file.
